


Sand

by andthebluestblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, M/M, Porn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim takes Seb back to Afghanistan. Also, porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sand

It's a nice room. Probably not by Jim's standards—the other man is already pulling on a pair of plastic gloves (because of course he had gloves in his pocket, because _that's_ normal) and taking the coverlet off the bed, shoving it in the back corner of the closet, well away from where he'll be hanging his suits.

But the mattress seems high quality, and Seb can't see any evidence of rats or an excess of bugs. The taps in the bathroom work, and actually run cold and hot water, not just lukewarm and tepid. When he pulls the drawer of the bedside table open, there's a Gideon's bible. There's air conditioning, for fuck's sake.

There is nothing in the room to indicate that they are in Afghanistan. There is no reason for the prickle between Seb's shoulder blades, or the headache he can feel starting right behind his left eye, a little above the scar. They're not even here to shoot anyone; unless something goes horribly wrong, they should just be establishing contact. It’s just a business trip.

Jim is hanging his suits, arranging his jacket on a hanger, humming, and it’s grating on Seb’s nerves. “Would you cut that shit out, Boss,” he growls, and Moriarty lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Well, someone’s got their panties in a twist. Didn’t sleep well on the plane, baby?” Jim coos, and it’s all Seb can do to keep his temper. 

“Are you going to be like this tomorrow? These guys are serious. If you try to fuck around with them—” He can see the set of Jim’s face, knows he should be backpedalling, but it’s too late, they’re in this place and Jim is just so goddamn flippant, the way he is about everything, and Seb needs to know that they’re not going to get shot tomorrow (sand in his eyes, his mouth, the wound in his shoulder, stinging and unavoidable).

“I know what I’m doing, thanks,” Jim hisses, prowling closer, “I know how people _work_ , not all of us rode around on daddy’s coattails for twenty years—” 

He strikes Jim. The other man rocks back a little, hand half-raised to his face, and then he lashes back at Seb, snarling, and Seb is holding him by one wrist, pushing him back against the wall so that he stumbles, off-balance, and he’s got Jim’s other wrist now, body pressed to Seb’s, pinning him against the wall.

He can't see Jim's face, but from the way his breath is hitting Seb's neck—not quite a pant, but with that strange high-pitched quality he recognizes—he knows the other man's pupils are blown. Jim twists his wrists in Seb's hand, and before he can clamp down hard enough Jim has one hand free and is digging his nails into Seb's cheek, right below the scar, and he feels the tingle of blood start as Jim drags his nails down, across his cheek. He hisses, mostly—though not entirely—from pain, and Jim giggles. Seb uses his free hand to grab the wrist, quickly, before he can go for Seb's eyes, and pushes it back up against the wall with the other one. He pushes them hard against the wall this time, hard enough that Jim's wrists will be bruised, but the other man just makes a breathy noise and arches his body closer to Seb's.

"Fuck, Boss," Seb growls. "Anyone ever tell you you're pretty messed up?"

Jim giggles again, tosses his head in a quick motion that catches Seb by surprise, flicks his tongue across the cuts on his face.  Seb jerks back, just a little, and Jim takes the opportunity to try to knee him the groin. Seb is half-expecting this, and he catches Jim's knee before it is halfway to him, slips his hand under it and pins it to the wall. He's out of free hands now, but he doesn't think that will be a problem—the other man is splayed against the wall, pulled up onto his toes, and his mouth has that familiar twist to it that says he knows he is beat and hates it. Seb takes a moment to breathe, resting his forehead on the other man's hair.

"Get the fuck off me, Moran," Jim snaps, and Seb knows he has won—Jim only calls him Moran when giving orders he doesn't expect to be followed.

He doesn't reply, just shoves the other man's wrists into the wall again. Jim snarls, wordless, and Seb leans down and pushes his tongue into Jim's mouth. The snarl cuts off abruptly, and Seb pulls back just in time—Jim's teeth click down on empty air. Seb can barely hear the noise over his own harsh breathing. He catches Jim's lower lip in his teeth, bites down until he can taste blood just under the skin. Jim's breath is as loud as his own now, panting, almost wheezing, trying to push his pinned hips up to meet Seb's. When Seb releases his lip, Jim lets his head roll back against the wall, running his tongue delicately over his swollen mouth. He glances up at Seb through his eyelashes, and the bastard knows that makes him wild, insane as hunting tigers in the dark. 

He bites back a groan, shoves his hips against Jim. It's probably not exactly what Jim wanted—the height difference means he's pressed more against Jim's stomach than anything else. He can feel the crisp shirt crumpling, and he wants to tear the stupid suit right off him, lay him clean and white and bare on the bed. Jim is always so fussy about his clothes—it makes Seb crazy when it isn't turning him on. He lets go of Jim's knee, tensed to grab it back again if he feels that particular shift of muscle that means danger, but all Jim does is resettle his weight, push himself against Seb's leg. Seb growls half-under his breath, fists his hand into Jim's hair and drags his mouth up to meet his own. Jim's lips are strangely soft over his teeth, without the usual vicious sharpness, and somehow this just makes Seb angry; he wants a fight, is keyed up for one, and Moriarty, who Seb has seen literally try to fight a wall, is— _submitting_. So he moves his hand to the perfectly-knotted tie at Jim's throat, undoes it with rough, quick motions, the ones that always make Jim smack him and bitch about how much a really good tie costs. 

But instead Jim just tilts his head, exposing his neck invitingly, and murmurs "Ooh, Colonel Moran. You're so _masterful_ ," and the bastard is actually _making fun of him_ , mocking him, when Seb can feel him hard, pressed against his leg. Calling him Colonel, like he even knows what the rank means, here in the desert, with the heat pressing down and sand scouring Seb's mind. And months of cold showers after Jim decides he's "bored" halfway through sucking Seb off, of watching clever fingers run down an already-smooth lapel. And the moment of stepping off the plane and feeling the familiar heat drag strange specific hands down his back, the slow sideways glance Moriarty gave him that said, _I planned this. I'm just playing to see how far I can push you_. And it is too much. He leaves Jim's tie loose on his neck, brings his hand back and around for a blow to Jim's face that makes him cry out and jerk against Seb's leg. Again, and Jim slumps against the wall, held up by Seb's grip on his wrists; he uses that to haul the other man to his feet and toss him in the direction of the bed. Jim lands gracelessly, throwing his hands out to catch himself a little too late and falling hard on his stomach. Seb is on him before he has time to recover himself, flipping Jim over and jerking the tie loose, pushing his arms up to the headboard, tying his wrists together to the bed. Jim looks—not startled, quite, but considering, as though this is an unexpected behavior in some familiar animal. Seb doesn't want to see that look on Jim's face now.

He drops his weight onto the smaller man, all of it at once, so he can feel the explosive burst of air and then Jim's quiet struggles to draw a full breath—like he thinks Seb won't notice the weakness if he doesn't call attention to it.

He makes a desultory effort to unbutton Jim's shirt before giving up and jerking each button off, Jim shuddering a little under him with each one. The final button, right at the base of Jim's neck, is stubborn, and he has to use his teeth to bite through the thread. When the shirt is open—Jim's chest strangely soft under him—he takes a moment to be vaguely appalled, again, that Jim wears those creamy expensive shirts straight against his skin. It's like him, spending hundreds of dollars and then destroying it in some petulant fit of hedonism, skin oils and sweat against some cloth Seb has never seen outside these shirts, something between cotton and silk. But then Jim moves under him, impatient, and he has to dig his teeth into the muscle that stretches between his neck and shoulder. Jim arches under him, goes gloriously still and silent, and draws a ragged breath when Seb lets go. Jim's eyes are shining the way they do before he slides a knife into a hostage.

"Hey there, tiger," he croons, drawing the last word out, relishing it. "Are you going to _eat. Me. Up_." He twists under Seb with every word, hips writhing, laughing soundlessly.

The man is impossible. Seb knows that, has always known it, but somehow thought it would be different here, with the strain showing in Jim's shoulders, his red wrists, blood from Seb's cheek staining his collar.

He shifts his weight and moves off the bed. Jim arches his body to follow, but has to let himself collapse back. Seb gingerly feels his cheek: three scores. He's had worse, but scars, especially facial, make people stare, and he wants to avoid that. Doubtless that’s the exact reason Jim aimed for his face.

Their first aid kit is in the bathroom, and he cleans out the wounds, dresses and bandages them. The other room is ominously silent, and he pauses in the doorway, wary. But Jim is still tied to the bed, shirt open and pushed back to his shoulders, legs spread in a way that stopped just this side of obscene before getting a second wind.

Seb knows Jim is doing it on purpose, has arranged himself carefully into this scene, hands pushed just so against the headboard and ribs lifted so he can almost see the light through them, delicate and sinful. Jim's eyes are lidded, and he smiles a slow, heavy smile at Seb, thick with control.

But Seb has plans to break that control. He tosses the other things he picked up in the bathroom onto the bedside table, and Moriarty's eyes jerk to follow them, face wiped clean and beautiful. Condoms. Lube. He licks his lips again, not sensual, as though he doesn't realize he is doing it. If it was anyone else, Seb would say they were nervous. On Jim, it's closer to intrigue.

Seb strips Jim so that he's lying on the bed in nothing but the remains of his shirt. He stands by the bed, opens the cap of the lube; Jim’s eyes hard and quick, aware of every move. Seb coats his fingers, adds some more and begins to slowly work his way into Moriarty’s body.

Jim makes a small noise, high, in the back of his throat, and Seb looks up to watch him toss his head restlessly. He tries to lift his hips off the bed, and Seb pushes him back down with his other hand, firm and gentle. He’s careful not to even brush the other man’s cock—not yet. 

Seb pulls his finger out of Jim, slides his hand up through Jim’s legs, teasing, still so careful. More lube, and then another finger, and Moriarty is making louder noises, writhing, trying to push up and pull away both at once, blood rising in his face. He’s flushed, and Seb is fascinated—he’s never seen Moriarty blush before, and it is strange and fetching and makes him want to take pieces out of the other man. A third finger makes Moriarty go still for a long moment, and Seb pauses, waiting for him to acclimate to the stretch. He remembers going through this, more than ten years ago, overseas, with a man whose face he doesn’t really remember. But he wants Jim to remember his face.

Moriarty takes a shaking breath, muscles unclenching just enough, and Seb curls his fingers, grins as the other man, startled, jerks forward, pulling against his bonds. 

“Doing okay there, Boss?” and it would have sounded better if Seb’s voice hadn’t been so hoarse. All he can do is hope Moriarty doesn’t notice. 

Jim glares at him. “Fuck you, Moran,” and, shit, his voice is even breathier than Seb’s and it makes Seb ache. But he’s going to do this right—though a small part of him wonders if he’s really going to do this. 

They’ve been fucking for about six months now—really, that’s how long Jim has been fucking him. It’s not that Seb minds getting fucked, or even that he doesn’t like it—he’d shoot a man for saying it, but he’s never come so hard as he did that first night, on his knees with Moriarty inside him, those manicured fingers on Seb’s cock. After, Moriarty had laughed, and bitten his ear hard enough to bleed—the way he always bit. Sometimes, when Jim’s especially pleased with something Seb’s done—killed someone, usually—or especially bored, he’ll take Seb in his mouth; and it’s amazing,  but getting sucked off lost its relish for Seb after the third time Moriarty got distracted halfway through and sent him off “cool himself down.”

But now Jim is here, hands tied, knees up, moving and panting under Seb’s fingers—around them. He looks drugged, overheated, heavy eyes and open mouth, flush spreading over his cheeks and down his neck. Seb sort of wants to lick it, see if the skin tastes different with the blood rising. But to do that he’d have to pull his fingers out, and just as he’s watching Jim, his crooked fingers brush the edge of something that actually makes Jim let out some combination of a gasp and—Seb cannot believe he hears this—a _squeak._ Jim’s cock, which had been softening slightly for lack of attention, suddenly twitches, full and hard. Seb wants to hear that noise again, but Jim seems to have gotten over his shock—the next time he brushes, there’s just a sort of strangled grunt, and Seb really hopes Jim hasn’t bitten through his tongue. Frustrated, he pushes a little deeper, a little harder, and he has a proper feel for the spot now, knows where it is; this time, he runs his nails lightly down Jim’s cock just as he hits it. 

Jim actually moans, and it’s ragged and full of the desperation that Seb has had building in him for months, and there’s a terrible moment where Seb thinks he’s going to completely ruin it by coming right there, all over the other man’s stomach, not even enter him. But the thought of how unlikely it is that he’ll ever get this kind of chance again—not to mention the sheer embarrassment of it—hold him in check. He can’t stop from baring his teeth, somewhere between a snarl and a grin, but he doesn’t really try—let Jim see that he knows just how undone Seb’s made him. Let him know that he’s not hiding anything.

He thinks Jim is probably ready now; he’s still tight around Seb’s fingers, but there’s a sort of yielding to it that makes Seb have to close his eyes, think about his old drill sergeant, dead kittens, anything to keep from coming . At that point, it stops mattering whether Jim is ready or not, because Seb is somewhere in the hazy aching place past _ready_ and into _too long_. 

Seb pulls out his fingers, shuddering at the wet sound it makes, and Jim makes a small beseeching noise, hips shifting to follow the hand. Seb places his hand low on Jim’s stomach, over the strange disparate softness of his belly, and Jim stops the movement. He closes his eyes, turns his head to the side, and like that, eyelashes dark and a little wet on his pale skin, Seb thinks he is strangely pretty, delicate; he’s saved from complete femininity just barely by the set of his jaw, the stubble that is beginning to show on his cheek.

Moriarty already has his legs spread, knees up, but Seb pushes them further back, tightens the curve of his body. Jim is so still, breathing shallowly, that Seb would be afraid if he were still capable of rational thought. Instead he fumbles with the condom, almost tearing it in half instead of opening it, and positions himself, and then—careful, so careful; he’s irrational but not stupid, and some part of him still knows dimly that Jim will be taking this out on his hide later—pushes into him. It’s warmer than he was expecting, almost hot, and softer, too, and he has a moment of wondering whether he feels harder than Moriarty was expecting. Jim always does. 

His ears would be roaring if there was any blood left in his head, and he pauses, trying to catch his breath, through he can run five miles and not feel this dizzy. Seb realizes that he hasn’t looked up at Moriarty once in the last forty-five seconds, and he raises his eyes, a little afraid of what he’ll see—Jim’s face twisted in pain, or (maybe worse) laughing down at him. 

He’s not laughing. Seb can’t read read his white face: eyes wide, mouth a little open, head pushed back against the headboard so hard that the tendons in his neck are standing out. He’s not breathing, and just as Seb raises his hand to the other man’s face, concerned, Jim says “Oh,” and lets his head fall to the side, breathing again, a little faster than normal. Seb drops his hand, braces it against the bed, so that he has one hand holding himself up and the other on Moriarty’s leg, pulling him up and opening him. He begins to move, slowly, in and out, watching the flush rise again in Jim’s cheeks, the other man making a small noise at the end of each thrust. It’s too soft to be a grunt, but too low-pitched to be a squeak; something breathy and rough and it makes Seb dizzy, this man. He’s leaning over Jim, chests not quite touching, and he’s dripping sweat onto him. Jim raises his head, licks the sweat along the other man’s shoulder in a way that makes Seb close his eyes, and then, suddenly, turns and sinks his teeth into the muscle above Seb’s collarbone. It’s the same place Seb bit him, earlier, and he knows this means Jim is carefully filing away every action to be trotted out and used as punishment later. But the feel of Jim’s teeth make strange things happen to his eyesight, and he begins to pound into Jim, part to distract him and part because he’s not sure how much longer he can last. Jim finally makes a real noise, then, something that probably would have been a yell if his mouth hadn’t been full of Seb’s skin. It’s both encouragement and condemnation—Seb knows, now, that Jim is enjoying this, but that he has, unforgivably, forced Jim into enjoying something that the other man did not dictate and control. 

Jim’s muscles are tightening and releasing, erratically, and Seb knows that he’s not the only one who’s close. He shoves a hand between their bodies, finds Jim’s cock and starts jerking him off, movements a little too quick, he knows, but he’s having trouble focusing on the double rhythm of his his body in and out of Jim’s and his hand wrapped around the other man. Still, Jim is lifting his hips, swearing, muttering a stream of obscenities that Seb can only partially follow, _shit_ and _fuck_  and something about Seb being a cocktease. Suddenly his head snaps back, hits the headboard with a noise that makes Seb wince, and he’s coming, body arched, hands fighting the ties, voice breaking—”Fuck, Seb, don’t _stop_ , fucking hell— _Seb._ ” It pushes him over the edge: the sight of Jim writhing under him, calling his name, the feel of his body clenched tight around Seb, and he shudders, one last thrust and he’s done, voice strangled, “Christ, _Jim,_ ” and all the blood is roaring back into his head, everything is white and it feels like the time he fell off the third floor, trying to fall and fall and not land.

He comes to a moment later, Moriarty still sprawled under him, joints aching: shoulders, knees, hips. Jim is oddly calm, collected; as Seb studies his face for signs of danger, he brings one hand down from the headboard and reaches for his face. Seb flinches back—he _knew_ he should have tied that tighter—but Jim just strokes a hand down his face and then kisses him, gentle and cool. 

“There now,” he murmurs, cupping Seb’s cheek. “Don’t you feel better about Afghanistan?” 


End file.
